The door to the kitchen opened. Mrs. Gutierrez came out wearing a black band around her arm and a new face that was more than just fresh makeup. A face hardened to withstand the acid bath of interrogation.

She sat down next to Raquel and whispered to her in Spanish.

"She says you may ask any questions you'd like."

I nodded with what I hoped was obvious gratitude.

"Please tell the senora that I express my sorrow at her tragic loss and also let her knew that I greatly appreciate her taking the time during her period of grief to talk to me."

The older woman listened to the translation and acknowledged me with a quick movement of her head.

"Ask her, Raquel, if Elena ever talked about her work. Especially during the last year."

As Raquel spoke a nostalgic smile spread across the older woman's face.

"She says only to complain that teachers did not get paid enough. That the hours were long and the children could get difficult."

"Any particular children?"

A whispered conference.

"No child in particular. The senora reminds you that Elena was a special kind of teacher who helped children with problems in learning. All the children had difficulties."

I wondered to myself if there'd been a connection between growing up with a brother like Rafael and the dead girl's choice of specialty.

"Did she speak at all about the child who was killed. The Nemeth boy?"

Upon hearing the question Mrs. Gutierrez nodded, sadly, then spoke.

"She mentioned it once or twice. She said she was very sad about it. That it was a tragedy," Raquel translated.

"Nothing else?"

"It would be rude to pursue it, Alex."

"Okay. Try this. Did Elena seem to have more money than usual recently? Did she buy expensive gifts for anyone in the family?"

"No. She says Elena always complained about not having enough money. She was a girl who liked to have good things. Pretty things. One minute." She listened to the older woman, nodding affirmation. "This wasn't always possible, as the family was never rich. Even when her husband was alive. But Elena worked very hard. She bought herself things. Sometimes on credit, but she always made her payments. Nothing was repossessed. She was a girl to make a mother proud."

I prepared myself for more tears, but there were none. The grieving mother looked at me with a cold, dark expression of challenge. I dare you, she was saying, to besmirch the memory of my little girl.

I looked away.

"Do you think I can ask her about Handler now?"

Before Raquel could answer, Mrs. Gutierrez spit. She gesticulated with both hands, raised her voice and uttered what had to be a string of curses. She ended the diatribe by spitting again.

"Need I translate?" asked Raquel.

"Don't bother." I made a mental search for a new line of questioning. Normally, my approach would have been to start off with small talk, casual banter, and subtly switch to direct questions. I was dissatisfied with the crude way I was handling this interview, but working with a translator was like doing surgery wearing garden gloves.

"Ask her if there is anything else she can tell me that might help us find the man who - you phrase it."

The old woman listened and answered vehemently.

"She says there is nothing. That the world has become a crazy place, full of demons. That a demon must have done this to Elena."

"Much as gracias, senora. Ask her if I might have a look at Elena's personal effects."

Raquel asked her and the mother deliberated. She looked me over from head to toe, sighed, and got up.

"Venga," she said, and led me to the rear of the house.

The flotsam and jetsam of Elena Gutierrez's twenty - eight years had been stored in cardboard boxes and stuck in a corner of what passed, in the tiny house, as a service porch. There was a windowed door with a view of the backyard. An apricot tree grew there, gnarled and deformed, spreading its fruit - laden branches across the rotting roof of a single car garage.

Across the hall was a small bedroom with two beds, the domicile of the brothers. From where I knelt I could see a maple dresser and shelves constructed of unfinished planks resting on cinder blocks. The shelves held a cheap stereo and a modest record collection. A carton of Marlboros and a pile of paperbacks shared the top of the dresser. One of the beds was neatly made, the other a jumble of tangled sheets. Between them was a single pine end table holding a lamp with a plastic base, an ashtray, and a copy of a Spanish girlie magazine.

Feeling like a Peeping Tom, I pulled the first box close and began my excursion in pop archaeology.

By the time I'd gone through three boxes I'd succumbed to an indigo mood. My hands were filthy with dust, my mind filled with images of the dead girl. There'd been nothing of substance, just the broken shards that surface at any prolonged dig. Clothing smelling of girl, half - empty bottles of cosmetics - reminders that someone had once tried to make her eyelashes look thick and lush, to give her hair that Clairol shine, to cover her blemishes and gloss her lips and smell good in all the right places. Scraps of paper with reminders to pick up eggs at Vons and wine at Vendome and other crypto grams laundry receipts, gasoline credit - card stubs, books - lots of them, mostly biographies and poetry, souvenirs - a miniature ukulele from Hawaii, an ashtray from a hotel in Palm Springs, ski boots, an almost - full disc of birth control pills, old lesson plans, memos from the principal, children's drawings - none by a boy named Nemeth.

It was too much like grave robbing for my taste. I understood, more than ever, why Milo drank too much.

There were two boxes to go. I went at them, working faster, and was almost done when the roar of a motorcycle filled the air, then died. The back door opened, footsteps sounded in the foyer.

"What the fuck - "

He was nineteen or twenty, short and powerfully built, wearing a sweat - soaked brown tank top that showed every muscle, grease - stained khaki pants and work boots coated with grime. His hair was thick and shaggy. It hung to his shoulders and was held in place by a thonged leather headband. He had fine, almost delicate features that he'd tried to camouflage by growing a mustache and beard. The mustache was black and luxuriant. It dropped over his lips and glistened like sable fur. The beard was a skimpy triangle of down on his chin. He looked like a kid playing Pancho Villa in the school play.

There was a ring of keys hanging from his belt and the keys jingled when he came toward me. His hands were balled up into grimy fists and he smelled of motor oil.

I showed him my LAPD. badge. He swore, but stopped.

"Listen man, you guys were here last week. We told you we had nothin' - " He stopped and looked down at the contents of the cardboard box strewn on the floor. "Shit, you went through all that stuff already. I just packed it up, man, getting' it ready for the Goodwill."

"Just a recheck," I said amiably.

"Yeah, man, why don't you dudes learn to get it right in the first fuckin' place, okay?"

"I'll be through in a moment."

"You're through now, man. Out." I stood.

"Give me a few minutes to wrap it up."

"Out man." He crooked his thumb toward the back door.

"I'm trying to investigate the death of your sister, Andy. It wouldn't hurt you to cooperate."

He took a step closer. There were grease smudges on his forehead, and under his eyes.

"Don't "Andy' me, dude. This is my place and it's Mr. Gutierrez. And don't give me that shit about investigating. You guys aren't never gonna catch the dude who did it to Elena 'cause you don't really give a fuck. Come bustin' into a home and going through personal stuff and treatin' us like peasants, man. You go out on the street and find the dude, man. This was Beverly Hills, he'd already 'a' been caught, he do this to some rich guy's daughter."